Doctor Knows Best
by Cat 2
Summary: A series of One shots, exploring meetings between Wolverine and the Medical Profession over the years. First up A pair of Stretcher bearers find an usual casulaty in the Trenches of the First World War.
1. Hang On

Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment owns all characters mentioned with the exception of Cat who is my own invention. This is a work of fanfic, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note. The inspiration for this story was reading "**Icy roads" by "**Jo the Phoenix". It basically tells the story of a couple of paramedics that run into Logan. That got me thinking that in the course of his long life, Logan must have had a lot of run ins with the Medical Services, How would they react, especially pre-knowledge of the existence of mutants. This is the result. It will be a series of one shots write and updated when the Muse strikes me. She does however love reviews, so if you want to encourage her (and me), please send lots. Flames are ignored; it's just for fun people!

**Hang on**

They found him hanging on the wire, surrounded by the remnants of his platoon.

The blood had dyed his khaki a dull red, and the blue eyes that gazed up at them, as they untangled him, were dull and unfocused.

Neither Moley nor his companion expected him to live. In fact neither was quite sure why they even were carrying a man so obviously near death to the Regimental Aid Post.

Perhaps it was because amidst all that death, all the destruction he was still alive, and for that fact alone they had to give him a chance.

The bodies were stacked down both sides of the trench, when they reached it. After reporting their casualty to the station, both walked away to retrieve more.

It was not till much, much later, that Moley passed that way again. The line of stretchers was as long as ever, almost all new faces.

Their wire victim was still there.

"Poor Devil. He's a long way from home" Moley thought, noticing, for the first time the insignia of Canada on his uniform.

It seemed wrong that he should have survived going over the top, survived been shot, lasted hours upon the wire, only to die because there were too many casualties and too few medics. He knelt in the mud beside the man, to see if there was a letter, a photo, anything to send home. To tell someone that he had died bravely.

He steeled himself for the horrific injuries he'd seen early as he pulled back the blanket...and stared.

The skin was unbroken. Filthy certainly, but with no sign of the holes that had earlier graced the chest. The wrists and arms, earlier covered with angry red lines from the wire, were now whole.

He must have gasped or made some sound, for the eyes flipped open. No longer dull and unfocused, they gazed at him with an expression of terror that Moley was sure mirrored his own. He sniffed the air, before muttering

"Water."

Dumbly Moley yanked his own canteen out of its holder, and held the cold metal against his lips as he drank deeply.

"Where am I?"

He stammered out an answer. The man nodded and began to attempt to get to his feet. The rational part of Moley's brain was screaming at him not to let him, that he was injured. But the evidence of his eyes belayed that.

He was short when he stood up, barely five foot three, with black hair too long and too untidy to belong to any British soldier. His face still bore the stubble of a couple of days.

Despite that his movements and attitude spoke of a combat vertan of one of the new units. Not some poor constricted kid, like him. A soldier.

His eyes looked into Moley's like they were boring into his soul

"Don't tell anyone what ya saw, today." The threat in his voice was apparent, but so was the terror in his eyes. He was about to protest, but decided against it. In this time of death and chaos, who was he to judge.

He nodded. The man gathered up the remains of his jacket, and headed off down the trenches. At the corner, however he paused.

"Thanks." He said softly, yet Moley had no trouble hearing him. Carefully he turned back and gathered up all evidence of the casualty, even moving the boy behind him closer down the line.

He then turned and walked in the opposite direction to the man, towards a dugout.

After everything that had happened today, he needed a stiff drink.

#

"_Quietly they set their burden down: he tried_

_To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side._

"_O put my leg, doctor, do!" (He'd got_

_A bullet in his ankle: and he'd been shot_

_Horribly though the guts.) The surgeon seemed_

_So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,_

"_You __must__ keep still, my lad." But he was dying._

_In An Underground Dressing Station by Siegfried Sassoon_

_2__nd__ June 1917 (begun in April)_

Author's Note. **The character of Moley is based on a real person. My grandfather worked as a stretcher bearer during the First World War. His partner, whose real name I will not give out, became a friend of the family, known to them as Moley as that was the role he played in the Christmas Panto, to which he sent them tickets. He and my grandfather were lucky. They made it home.**

**Stretcher bearers ran the continual risk of been shot by either side, as they tried to retrieve casualties. As a result they were probably the bravest men out there. So this chapter is dedicated to them. Both the lucky and the unlucky ones. As far as I know no stretcher bearer ever had this exact experience, but if someone would like to tell me otherwise, I'd be happy to listen. Please Review, I really put a lot into this story, so even if you're not sure that you like it, please find something good to say.**


	2. Annexe

Annexe

_Annexe _

Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment owns all characters mentioned with the exception of Cat who is my own invention. This is a work of fanfic, no copyright infringement is intended. My muse loves reviews, so please help her. Explanation for the setting at the end of the story.

_Annexe level, Secret Wartime tunnels, Dover 1943_

"Here you can't do that now."

"I was told to mop up this area."  
"Well not now you can't. There's an ambulance arriving in a few minutes and if you start sloping water about we'll have more casualties than we bargained for."  
"Oh alright. Here you got a cigarette?"

The voices came to him distantly as though they belonged to someone else's ears, above the wail of the siren. The hands that bore him, those too felt distant. Like they belonged to another world, piecing this one only briefly.

"..Fighter pilot is he?"  
"Unknown sir. He was found in the channel. Shot down and almost made it back."

"Is he conscious?"  
"Was when we found him sir."

"Get him down to clearing post. Bay 2."

"Yes sir."  
"he been given anything?"

"No sir."

"Alright. Now you can start cleaning."  
"'Ere." The cleaner's voice was full of ghoulish enjoyment. "He's a right mess ain't he?"

The blackness claimed him.

Dr Millar sighed. He'd been on shift for nearly 12 hours. Most of the victims were pilots, just move them on to surgery, if they were still alive. There were also the civilians, some bomb victims, some more ordinary injuries. But he had never had a night like tonight.

They had brought in a guy, just as his shift was starting, and a child, perhaps ten or eleven. Didn't seem to speak much English.

He'd been Dead upon arrival. A real mess according to the guy on shift before him. The body had yet to be moved to the morgue; instead it lay still on the stretcher it had been brought in on. Someone had covered it with a blanket, but the child would not leave it alone. She kept attempting to wander over to. Protesting in her own language. He knew enough Russian to understand that she was claiming he wasn't dead.

Sighing again, he shook his head.

Maybe if she saw the body she'd accept it. Gently he pulled back the blanket, to check how bad it was, and blinked.

The chest was rising and falling, shallowly, sure but still.

Slowly he thought about it.

The guy had been fished out of the Channel. There had been reports of pilots been fished out without a mark on them, who simply froze to death, but first their breathing and pulse slowed down. In some cases stopped.

If he'd come in with other casualties, he'd have left him. Gone to someone who had a chance.

He was suddenly grateful for his Canadian upbringing.  
"Get me some more blankets!" he bellowed at an orderly.

He glanced back at the man again, grabbing the ambulances' notes. They mentioned horrific injuries. Open facture of the right arm, shrapnel embedded in his left leg, a long cut above his right eye.

There was no evidence of these.

He shook his head. In the confusion, someone must have got the wrong notes for this guy.

It was happening all the time.

It was the war.

Fin

**Author's notes: at the outbreak of war in 1939, the Napoleonic Tunnels under Dover Castle, England were**** converted first into an air-raid shelter and then later into a military command centre and underground hospital. The levels were codenamed Annexe, which was the underground hospital, Casemate, where both the excavation of Dunkirk and D day were co-Ordinate from, DUMPY and Esplanade, which were later converted to serve a regional seat of government in the event of Nuclear war, and Bastion, which access to is still being sort.**

**English Heritage, which Manages Dover Castle, has opened Annexe and case mate, with a remarkable display. ****Through sight, sound and smells relive the wartime drama of the underground hospital as a wounded Battle of Britain pilot is taken to the operating theatre in a bid to save his life. The dialogue at the beginning, is actually based on the dialogue you will hear as you go around. You can also discover how life would have been during the planning days of the Dunkirk evacuation and Operation Dynamo as you are led around the network of tunnels and casements housing the communications centre. I have personally seen it at least 7 times and always discover something new. I strongly recommend anyone ****who has the opportunity to visit. There are also many other fabulous exhibitions at the castle. English Heritage is not paying me to push this, it's genuinely what I think. Anyone wanting more details should consult either Wikipedia or English Heritage's website.**

**Treatment for Hypothermia as we now know it, was actually concieved by the Nazis in the Concentration camps. for more details see the See Also section at the end of the Wikipedia Article on Hypothermia.**

**This chapter is dedicated to the staff of the Underground hospital, those involved in Operation Dynamo and D-Day. Thank you for our Freedom.**


	3. Chapter 3 Suicide in the Hospital

Suicide in the Hospital

Author's note: as I've stated in the explaination, these are one shots and are not in any order. I don't own Logan and the poem is Suicide in the Trenches by Sassoon. Enjoy. Nice reviews make me write quicker.

_I knew a simple soldier boy  
Who grinned at life in empty joy,  
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,  
And whistled early with the lark._

_In winter trenches, cowed and glum,  
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,  
He put a bullet through his brain.  
No one spoke of him again._

Canada, 1970

Murthy's law states that whatever can go wrong will.

This is never more clearly proved, in my experience, than in a hospital especially the night they brought him in.

I was a resident back then at Community General Hospital in Ottawa, and I'd been on shift for about… 48 hours, without, and I'll swear this before any judge, a wink of sleep.

Every time I went to the on call room and lie down, or even just put the kettle on, something, someone would happen. It was there that I developed my taste for cold coffee, something I think that every doctor should.

It was about midnight that I put the kettle on. It had boiled, and I'd even poured the hot water into the machine and got the coffee in the mug, before nurse Sasver shoved her head around the door. I abandoned the cup on the desk.

"What we got?"

"Caucasian Male, early thirties, suspected drugs over dose."

"We know what he's taken?" I asked, scanning the body. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans. No puncture wounds, but the T-shirt was stained, and I could smell the alcohol.

"Found these in the flat."

I had to surpass a groan, as the paramedic handed the bagged bottle over. Its label and the general size and colour of the tablets, proclaimed it to be an antidepressant, nicknamed among the interns as Coma cocktail. If the alcohol on shirt was any clue, we were fighting a losing battle.

The blood pressure and vital stats registered briefly, and I was shocked to realise that they weren't that far off normal.

"What's his name?" I asked, grabbing the torch from my pocket.

"Logan." Said a female voice, and I turned to look at the woman who had followed the ambulance in. she was, I would guess, in her early twenties, though her blue eyes held the experiences of a woman double that age. Her blonde hair was cut in the style of the American military.

His girlfriend? Perhaps, but I didn't think so. Her manner, calmly taking her seat where she was instructed, her hands balled into fists, was more that of a friend or colleague than a lover.

"O.k. Logan can you hear me?" I asked, opening first the right eye, then the left, then both together. The pupils were dilated and unresponsive. A quick pinch of the earlobe produced no response.

"point three of** Flumazenil** stat." I yelled. I turned to the paramedics.

"How long's he being like this?"

The paramedic shrugged.

"Girl just called round and found him unconscious."

I nodded. Brilliant. The text books all assume that you'll have all the equipment and information you need, but ask any medic, hell ask any first aider, and they'll tell you it never works like that.

"O.k. get a stomach pump down here and a crash cart." I glanced down at the small guy, as I took his pulse. Despite the chaos around him, he looked peaceful, but his pulse was getting weaker.

"We're going to need it."

Rapidly we wheeled him into bay 1. Our job? Stabilise him, then get him up to ICU and hope he made it through the night. If that bottle had been full when he started, though, I wouldn't have given much for his chances.

Unfortunately we got another casualty at that point. R.T.A, three victims. I, thankfully, wasn't the only resident on call, but I still step out, just for a second to see if I could help. Luckily Timothy: Yes Dr. Timothy Driver now chief of Trauma here and one of the experts in the country, but at the time he was just a lowly resident: had it all under control.

However, with three victims, all serious and all with better chances of survival than the guy lying on the bed next to me, I wasn't feeling good about his chances. We'd had three similar incidents in the last week alone. All intelligence, as I was prepared to bet this guy was, despite the lack of red sticker on his chart, all O.D. with alcohol, all dead. One had survived the night, but never regained consciousness. One had been D.O.A, and one had, as I thought this guy was going to do, slipped away in the ER, as we had too many casualties, but not before we'd pumped his stomach and shocked him 3 times.

I shook my head. It wasn't fair. This guy was willing to die for us, to kill for us, and he was going to die, not because there was some crazy guy halfway across the world who needed getting rid of, but because some idiot medic rather than getting him out, had sent him straight back in. it felt like shooting a shellshock victim for cowardice. For that reason, if no other, I was going to stay here until I was called away. So that he wasn't alone when he died.

I glanced down at the label on the pill bottle, and it was a good thing that the name on it wasn't a doctor at the hospital, or there would have been two casualties that night. Not that it would have done any good. Those drugs wouldn't be made illegal for 2 years. God only knows how many lives that cost.

I reached down again to take the pulse; half hoping it would have stopped, so he could be allowed to sink away with some dignity.

The pause was strong and getting stronger every second. Panic stricken I glanced at the bottle. Had I got it wrong? Had he taken amphetamines? If so I could have made things worse.

No. I was right. Quickly I yelled out

"I need some help in here."

This was way, way beyond my experience. I looked back, terrified. The guy groaned, and the eyes, electric blue opened and stared at me. Fear, horror, rage, all past though the eyes. I'd seen this before. A disadvantage of Ottawa was that we got a lot of intelligence boys, and not all of them were pleased when they came round.

"Easy buddy." I said, as calmly as I could. "You're safe."

There was still suspicion in his eyes, but I couldn't say I blamed him.

The eyes fluttered shut as he moaned and tried to sit up.

"No. No. you have to …" my next words were cut off, as his hand grabbed my arm, forcing me to the floor. He was barely five foot three, but he was really strong.

"Logan!" the voice made us both turn. The blonde from earlier was standing in the doorway of the cuticle with Dr Thornton, chief of medicine next to her.

The guy grunted and released me, swaying unsteadily on his feet. The girl ran over and grabbed him, while Dr. Thornton helped me to my feet.

"Congratulations son. You must have pumped his stomach in time."

"But I never…" I trailed off at the sight of the stomach pump lying on the floor beside me.

Dr Thornton regarded me with concern.  
"How long have you being on shift, Dr Cox?"

"About 50 hours." I Admitted. He nodded.

"Risk to yourself and the patients. Go get some sleep." He said, patting my arm. I nodded and wandered back to the lounge in a daze.

Was he right? Had I forgotten part of the treatment? Had what I was sure had happened there, just being a delusion brought on by lack of sleep?

Instinctively I picked up the mug I'd poured earlier.

The coffee was still hot.

TBC

_You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye  
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,  
Sneak home and pray you'll never know  
The hell where youth and laughter go._


	4. Worse Things than death

In Honour of the 90th Anniversary of the Spanish Flu epidemic

Worse things than dying.

If the cyanosis appeared, then things were bad.

She knew this, yet she was certain if anyone could have beaten this, then her mystery soldier could have.

He had come in when things were at their blackest. News from London said that 15000 a week were dying in the capital and things were little better here. There weren't even enough beds; the best they could do was a stretcher on the stairs. Low blood and fever, but no cyanosis. Yet.

He was a fighter, this one and more than his uniform told her that. She heard of the Devil's brigade, but she never thought she'd have the chance to meet one. If they were all as tough as this one, then she understood the nickname.

He'd kept fighting, twitching in the feverish sleep, like a dog chasing dream rabbits. Even though it was clear that every breath was a battle, he kept fighting and she found herself willing him to keep going.

"Come on my mystery soldier." She muttered, for with the winter rain his dog tags were illegible, "keep fighting. You can do this."

It became her prayer, her manta, she whispered it every time she was near him and at first it seemed to be helping. He survived the night, and had kept surviving, not improving, but not getting any worse, for nearly 3 days.

Then that morning she had seen the purplish tinge around his mouth and ears, and had known it was hopeless.

She had persuade Jeanne Marie to cover for her, and slipped out on to the balcony.

She wasn't a nurse, had never wanted to be one. But when her Jimmy had been called up, the hours alone had been too much. And she was never any good at knitting.

When she'd been told Jimmy was Missing Presumed Dead, nursing had been all that kept her going. She'd kept nursing, kept working, much to her parents' horror.

Then the Spanish Influenza had struck, and then War, which no matter what she might have thought had remained a comparative stranger to her, came right to her doorstep.

"Jane." Jeanne Marie was standing there, her face grave.

"No." she whispered. "No."

"It was quick." Jeanne continued rapidly. "He was still trying to fight it, but we both this disease loves a good fight. That he lasted as long as he did is nothing short of miraculous."

"He didn't have to die." She muttered, not sure why. Jeanne put her arm around her. "I told Matron you weren't feeling well. She said you should go home and rest."

Jeanne came from a small village outside of Montreal, in another life; they would have never met; now she held her like she was the only thing keeping her from falling.

"I can't. There's nothing for me there." She swallowed, pushing back her tears. "Where have they taken him?"

"To the morgue. Jane," she called past as the woman pushed past her. "Where are you going?"

"To sit with him. And see if I can find out who he was."

"Jane!" she could hear the expiration in the French Canadian's voice as she headed down the corridor. "They've sent for his unit, they'll be here any moment."

* * *

They called it the morgue, even though it wasn't really.

A small sanatorium like this had never been designed to cope with the numbers that were dying. So the dead lay in one of the big rooms, that had previously being a play area from the children.

They lay in rows, meaning that only the silence, and the sheets covering them, distinguished it from the wards upstairs.

She found him quickly enough.

One hand had fallen out from under the blanket when they set him down and she picked it up.

"Do you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?" she asked him, softly. "Is there someone like me out there? Waiting, hoping even though they know they shouldn't, that the next knock on the door, the next ring of the bell will be you?"

She shook her head, blinking back tears. "This is ridiculous. I don't even know your name. For all I know you could be a deserter, or a wife beater or a white slaver. We don't even know that the clothes you were wearing were your own. You could have stolen them off a corpse and that's how you got sick." She looked down at the corpse. He looked not young, but like one of the lumberjacks who used to do business with her papa. Men who were ageless, looking the same at 20 as they did at 60. Her father said it was a harsh life that made them that way. Her mother said they were pickled with whisky.

Perhaps that had been his trade, until…

A small noise distracted her from her musing. At first she was sure she had imagined it, and then she realised. The blanket was moving up and down, this man was breathing. Shallowly, sure, but nerveless.

She dropped his hand as though it was a rod of hot iron and back away shaking her head, as the blanket slid away from the face.

Like the monster in the Frankenstein picture, the creature sat up, the blanket falling away from him. One Blue eye blinked open.

She couldn't scream, she backed away until she hit the steps, then she ran up the stairs, nearly colliding with a man at the top of them.

"Ahh. Sister Jane. There you are." Matron stood to one side of the man who was now holding her.

He was big, easily over six foot, with brown hair and eyes…she couldn't explain it, but she knew this man was evil. That he wanted to hurt her and everyone else.

If Matron was aware of this, she gave no sign, as she turned to Jane. She turned to Jane. "Sister, this is Mr. Silas Blurr, your Mystery soldier's commander. He has very kindly offered to make sure his remains are sent home to his family."

"That's very kind of you, sir." She said,

"Sister Jane took quite a shine to your Sergeant." Matron was saying to the man, who smiled. It made her think of the huge dog that their gamekeeper used to keep. An evil brute that would bite anyone who came near it.

"Logan always was one for the ladies." Mr Blurr said, smiling again. "I'm glad he had one so pretty to comfort him."

"I was just doing my duty sir." No matter what, nothing was going to persuade her to hand over her mystery soldier to this man.

"Yes, Well." Matron bustled in between them, "There's some paperwork you must sign, Mr Blurr, then he's all yours."

As the man turned, so did she.

She ran down the stairs. Her mystery soldier, or Logan as she supposed she must call him, was sitting up, looking as though he was as confused by the situation as she was.

"Can you stand?" she asked. He looked at her, the blue eye fixed and hesitatingly nodded.

"Then Get up. Quickly." She thrust the coat she'd grabbed from the rack at him. "Put this on. There's a man called Blurr here to take you away."

"Silus Blurr?" the words were little more than a snarl, but she nodded. "Come on. Hurry."

For a man who had been in death's arms less than an hour before, he moved quickly. When he stood up off the stretcher, she thought he would fall for an instant, but he quickly steadied himself.

"Come. I know another way out."

Carefully she led the way to the little used door that in another life had been used to take those sickened with Tuberculosis out for fresh air.

As the winter chill hit them, she dug in her pockets.

"Here's 5 dollars. Get as far away from here as you can."

He nodded. "What's your name? I'll pay you back."

She paused. "Jane Plane."

At his smile, she said, "Mr. Blurr called you Logan. Is that your name?"  
There was a slight hesitation, before he nodded. "But the less you know about me, the better."

She smiled slightly.

"I know you've been blessed."

His smile was ruefully. "Doesn't feel like a blessing in France. There are worse things than dieing."

She could hear Matron's footsteps coming down stairs.

"Go!" she said, shutting the door, and hurrying up the back stairs. She was coughing by the time she reached the ward.

Later, as she fought for every breath, she realised the truth of what Mr. Logan had said. There were worse things than dying.


	5. Never get out

I'd been there about 6 months, when I realised, I mean truly realised, how different things were around here.

They brought this guy in here. No name given and no real information on the chart. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary; intelligence guys move around so much that I think I've reached the stage where having a patient's full medical history would confuse me.

Bullet wound to the shoulder. A single pad of gauze pressed against the open wound, already scarlet, and the guy bent over, holding it here, breathing deeply.

No screams, that was normal too. When your life rests on staying quiet, you do it, no matter how bad the pain.

"Can I see?" I asked, gently. He didn't reply, didn't move even. I was worried he might be in shock, but the skin was warm, if slightly clammy and, the blue eyes that focused on me as I removed his hand and the pad were clear.

"Ooh." I said, looking down at the red mess. "That's gotta sting."

He didn't reply, just looked at the wound confused, as though noticing it for the first time. Maybe it was the first time he'd been properly aware of it. Adrenaline will do that to you.

I could see the bullet, sticking out. Looked like it had lodged itself in the hollow of the clavicle.

"O.K." I said, straitening up. "I'm going to have to take it out. I'll give you something for the..."

I turned around to reach for the needle and a hand reaches out to grab me.

"No drugs. Just take it out."

I shook my head. "I have to give you at least a local anaesthetic; else the pain'll send you into shock."

A simple interpretation, but what was needed for most of these guys. Make sure it's not a request, but an order.

"No drugs." He repeated. "They won't have any effect."

I resisted a desire to groan. Drugs and the intell community go way back, probably to their beginning. Most have a high resistance, once they've been in a few years.

"Don't be so sure, I've got some very powerful ones here." A spasm suddenly ran through the arm and I paused. "What have you taken?"

He glanced up at me.

"Nuthin'. Just the nerves regrowing."

There was no way he could mean it literally. If there had been nerve damage, then there hadn't been enough time for it to heal, and his career was over. I ran my head through a list of common nicknames for drugs, trying to remember one called nerves, but drawing a blank.

I leant back to reach a fresh hydro. Have to take a sample and let the lab boys tell me. If I gave him anything at the moment, it might do more harm than good.

I grabbed the syringe and spare a look at the wound.

Still bleeding. Hydrophilic? No they wouldn't let him and if they did for some special reason that tends to be the sort of thing you're told. Dead agents are no good to anyone.

It's then that I noticed the bullet.

When I first looked at it, I could just see the back poking out admits the muscle and blood. Now the bullet was sticking out, literally of the wound, I could even see the compressed head starting to peak out.

"Well" he said, jerking me back to him. "Aren't you going to remove it?"

Hands trembling, I grabbed a pair of tweezers off the desk and eased the bullet out, putting it in a kidney dish. Numbly, I pressed a pad on to the leaking wound, while turning back to the trolley.

Needle and thread, he'd need stitches, but my hands were shaking so bad I couldn't thread the needle....

"Good afternoon, Doctor." His voice was calm, and I was proud of myself for not sending all my instruments over the floor as I jumped.

He looked at my patient, holding a brown file in his hands. "Ready, weapon X?"  
I wanted to protest, to argue that this man was shot, less than an hour ago. That he needs rest.

But the guy just shrugged, pulling the pad away, and the skin's fine, the only trace of what happened, some blood stains running down his arm.

The man nodded."Thank you, Doctor."

I just stood there, staring at where he'd been, as he walked off. At the same time, I felt for him. Injury is often the only way these guys get a break. Death their only end.

_Poor guy,_ I thought beginning to clean up. _He'll never get out._


	6. Better than a plan

I wrote this fic ages ago, but never published it as I didn't like it.

Then today I came back and made some alterations and decided it's not as bad as I thought. Hope everyone else agrees.

It's set slightly after Wolverine 32 (3rd series)

Poland, early 1943

She cursed the American Sergeant with every bad word she knew. The doctor had made his views clear. No concentration camp victims. The risks involved were too high.

She had told him this, as had Doctor Vert. In fact they had had a furious row on the subject.

It had come down to this. The Americans had rescued him. No one was denying that. Nor was anyone denying that the man could not be taken back with them. They were camped with the rest of the resistance out in the woods, and there were many diseases in the death camps. Here in the village they could be controlled, but out there, this man could devastate their fighting force.

That was the only reason Doctor Vert agreed he could stay here, though he refused to treat him.

"Suppliers are too precious to waste on a dead man." He said. Privately she agreed with him. But she owed the Americans too much not to try.

She had no formal medical training. Just the first aid skills taught to all SOE operatives, and a pre war German medical text book that someone had founded. But she was doing her best.

The man was in a bad way. His ribs were less than an inch from his skin, which was covered in sores. Almost every bone his body seemed to have been broken, at least once. Many of them were still broken. The skin was covered with lice bites. He was barely conscious.

She had done what she could, washing the skin with boiling water. The broken limbs had been placed in splints.

The book recommended that victims of starvations should be given small quantities of small quantities of sugared water, followed by diluted milk, and then whole milk. This was unfortunately not an option, as there was no sugar to be had. She had ended up mixing honey and milk. So far it had not killed him.

She sighed as she looked down at him, feeling the exhaustion of the last few nights. She needed to sleep. That night she was to be taken to the cinema by Herr Karl-Heinz Schenkel, a mission vital if they were to get more information from him. Sergeant Fury had promised to watch the patient. Silently she sank to the floor.

She awoke, as someone was shaking her. Her hand automatically ran to her weapon.

"Hey. Hey!" Nick Fury stood, his hands held up. "I'm on your side."

"My apologizes monsieur." She said, getting to her feet. She moved upstairs, washed her hair, and changed into clothes suitable for the daughter of the local doctor.

"You've done a good job, cleaning him up." Nick observed, as he gathered her bag. "Guess the dirt made it look worse than it was."

She had no idea why she paused, or why she walked back, but what she saw shocked her.

The sores were almost entirely gone. The man was still overly thin, and many of the limbs were still at their stiff angles. She might have said something, but there was a knock on the door.

Herr Karl-Heinz Schenkel stood in the doorway. He leant in to kiss her, and as he did the scent of burning human flesh threaten to overwhelm her. She had to fight not to gag, reminding herself that by the end of the evening she would no longer notice it.

The prisoner however played on her mind, and she barely paid attention to the film. Thankfully Karl did not appear to notice, and she was able to force her attention to remain on him during the dinner. She came home at nearly midnight, having stopped up against a wall with Karl, though they had not gone as far as he had wanted.

Fury had fallen asleep, his head resting against the stone wall, and she didn't have the heart to wake him. Her patient was awake however, and she slowly coaxed him into eating some more of the milk and honey.

"Co jest wasze imię (nazwa)?" she asked, remembering that most of the men at camp were natives of the country. His head moved slightly from side to side, and his eyes betrayed no understanding.

"wie ist Ihr Name?" she tried again. Still no response. French equally received no comprehension. She sighed irritated. Then a thought occurred to her. Nick had said he knew him. Therefore he might be American.

"What are you called?" she asked gently. There was a pause, before a voice, hoarse from lack of use answered.

"Logan."

She nodded.

"They call me Cat." She said by way of introduction.

"How did I get?" it's clearly a struggle for him to speak, so she interrupts him.

"Sergeant Fury and his men found you. They brought you to the resistance." She moved and adjusted the pillows.

"Sleep now. You're safe." He looked like he wanted to argue, but the poor man could hardly keep his eyes open.

She moved softly around, tidying up. She must have made some noise, or done something to wake up the sergeant, as he opened his eyes and gazed blearily at her.

"You have a good night?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Karl came though on his end of the bargain. We got the information we need."

Fury nodded. He seemed quite relaxed, so she decide to be brave and ask him.

"Do we have a plan?"

Nick shook his head. "Nah, no plan yet. But we've got something better than a plan."

"What?"

Fury jerked his head at the man sleeping on the bed.

"Him."


	7. Many Changes

The effects of listening to good night saigon and Sucide is Painless for three days. That plus writing Creed as a good guy.

A Jungle, somewhere in South East Asia, 1966

"Come on Runt. Not far now." He couldn't honestly tell if that was true. One part of the fucking forest looked the same.

He couldn't tell if they were getting closer to the coast, or further away. Couldn't even tell if they'd been in this part of the forest.

Felt like he was going blind and deaf. In his arms, Logan groaned muttered something. The blood was soaking through his top.

He paused at a strange noise coming across the trees.

"helicopter." He muttered, counting the blades. "Lot of them. Three. Must be a MASH nearby." He shook himself. "Come on Logan. Hang in. Really not far now."

* * *

"MEDIC NEEDED NOW!"

Constable did his best not to stare at the creature that bust out of the forest at the edge of the camp. His hair and beard were mattered and blood covered his chest and hair.

Thankfully training snapped in.

"Team 2, let's go!" He ran forward, hearing the stretcher following behind him. It was only when he got close that he realised that the creature was human and that it had another human in his arm.

"Alright soldier. What's your name?"

"Sabretooth." The voice came out in a rush. "We got separated from our unit. Ran into Charlie out in the brush. Logan got hit pretty bad."

"Pretty bad" appeared to be an understatement. He searched over, looking for an area of the small man's body that wasn't covered blood. A hand that hung out from over the edge of the arms was cooling as they spoke.

"Alright." He muttered, "Get him to Bay two. Get Greeves to take a look at this one."

"SHOCK" He mouthed over the man's shoulder, as he gently pushing him towards Greeves. The stretcher moved slowly towards the tents.

* * *

Father Greeves sat quietly in the mess tent, waiting. He'd done this a million times, often in the same day, sat with guys who'd pulled their best friend out of the fire, only to lose them later.

The best thing was to wait with them. Wait for them to speak, to talk about their friend.

Some found it easier to talk about past times, some spoke of what had happened, some their hatred for the man who killed their friend.

Ultimately, the need to fill the silence won out.

Not so with this one.

"Sabretooth", the only name he had given, simply sat in silence, as though it was his friend. He had refused offers of food, drink, a cigarette or something along those lines.

A part of Greeves was worrying that this man was silently breaking down in front of him, retreating inside his head never to return. Yet in spite of the evidence, he didn't think that.

It was the eyes, he decided after a pause, the way they darted around the tent as though looking for something, someone. Sabretooth knew exactly where he was, and what was going on. Of that he was sure.

* * *

You don't talk about it. You don't even think about it.

Weird stuff happens, and you just ignore it.

That's the rules he's obeyed for as long as he can remember.

Don't think about how you can come through a wall of machine gun fire with your shirt shredded, but your skin untouched. Don't think about how Wraith gets you out of some of those situations; don't think about Maverick's ability to take a punch, even with body armour.

Just don't think about it. EVER!

Except at the moment, you can't stop thinking about it. About those things that came out of Logan's hands. About the way your fingers keep itching like they've got the Wendigo's curse in them. About the way the dreams of a cabin in the snow and an Indian woman keep getting stronger, feeling more real, even though the clothes in those dreams belong to another century. About the way this space was full of noise, even though the guy sitting next to you is silent. You can hear his heart beating.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

So loud, too loud. You want the noise to stop, you don't want to think, you_

"Creed." Wraith's standing in the doorway. "Logan's alright. They're loading him up. Come on." He shook his head. "Tear apart half of Vietnam, looking for you, and you guys manage to make your way back. How the heck did you do it?"

"Just dumb luck." Don't think about it. For that way lies madness.

* * *

"Strange case" Constable admitted, standing beside Greeves, as they watched the blond and the dark man boarding the chopper, hovering a few inches above the ground. "Most of the blood must have come from the enemy. When I examined him there was hardly a scratch on him. Weird huh?"

Greeves nodded, glancing towards the blond man. "Yes. Very weird."


End file.
